


perfect

by sweetheartbitterheart



Category: Life with Derek
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartbitterheart/pseuds/sweetheartbitterheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It surpassed every careful jab, stolen kiss, frenzied touch, and satisfied sigh they had ever shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	perfect

The rain was a steady rhythm against the window, the rat-tat-tat-tat a balm to the silence. Someone had left the corner lamp on, softening the hard edges of the shadows and the yellow hue was warm against her sight as she lay on the bed. She felt oddly comfortable in a bed that did not belong to her, her head pillowed upon his scent, her body twisted around cotton sheets.

She reached towards the nightstand and glanced at the clock on her phone.

_12:02 PM._

She let her phone clattered back on the table, twisting to her other side as the bathroom door opened.

"It's twelve o'clock," she said, hint of an accusation in her tone.

He half shrugged, "You looked tired."

"We've got class in an hour," she reminded him.

It was the only class they shared; Storytelling for Film and Television. He was minoring in film (majoring in business) while she was majoring in English and had recently taken up interest in screenwriting.

His only answer was another shrug as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. He disappeared inside the bathroom again, the mechanical sound of swirls joining the tapping of the rain.

She scooped his plaid shirt off of the floor and rolled up the too-long sleeves. She rummaged inside her bag until she found her own toothbrush. The floor was colder than she thought, and she tipped-toed quickly to the bathroom.

He was already leaning on one side of the counter, the tube of toothpaste offered in her direction. She leaned against the opposite side of the counter; her bare legs shivered as they pressed against the tiled bathroom wall. She brushed as she watched him rinse, the mint spreading a burning trail from her tongue to the edges of her nerves, where it licked happily when her eyes studied the scattered hair on his chest that always teased but never tickled her.

He grabbed a can of shaving cream and her mirror image lifted an eyebrow.

"We've got class in an hour," he mimicked an explanation and a defense.

He saw her rolled her eyes behind him, before she pushed him aside so she could spit and rinse. Once she's done, she hopped on the counter next to the sink, wayward drops of water seeping into her, well his—their, her mind compromise—shirt. He stopped spreading the cream on his jaw, and it was his turn to lift an eyebrow when he saw her palm up hand.

"What?"

"Give me the shaving cream."

"Casey…"

"Derek…"

"Case," he repeated softly.

Her mouth forms into a slight smirk, "I'm not going to hurt you."

He stared down at her, the words so easily believable in his small bathroom.

He shifted closer, settling in between her legs and handed her the can.

A small dollop of white foam formed on one of her palms. She rubbed her hands together and reached towards his face. He closed his eyes as her fingers touched him, the slick feel of the foam and her silky skin a contradiction against his scruff. Closed off in his darkness, the tapping of the rain was louder, her fingers more patient than they were at night and the mint odor appropriately fresh on her breath than coffee and smoke. It was dangerously close to normal, yet he couldn't help but lean in towards her touch.

He felt the cool blades tentatively glide down his jaw and he opened his eyes to find her brows dipped in concentration.

Her blue eyes met him from underneath her lashes. "Hold still," then she wrapped her legs around his waist, legs, eyes, and hands trapping him to her. His hands settled around her waist, a promise to stay.

He watched her work, the scrapping of the blades against his skin and her breathing a harmonious sound.

She bit her lip in concentration as she moved onto his neck. He stilled even more, resisting the urge to swallow as the blades passed his Adam's apple. Her fingers splayed across the side of his neck, tilting it slightly, and under her careful ministration, he felt something shifted between them.

It surpassed every careful jab, stolen kiss, frenzied touch, and satisfied sigh they had ever shared.

She finished with a flick and dropped the Gillette in the sink. With a wet, warm towel, she cleaned her work, erasing the extra cream off of his face. And all the while, he tightened his hold on her, irrationally fearing the end of this sudden intimacy.

He pulled her closer when she let go of the towel. She laughed but stopped when her body aligned with his, the face that she had carefully shaved burrowed against her neck. He always thought she had a lovely neck, graceful and lean, perfect for kisses in the dark. She sighed when he rubbed his clean jaw against her collarbone.

"Thank you. You did a perfect job," he mumbled against her skin.

"Perfect," she murmured in agreement, and wrapped her arms around him.


End file.
